I picture Frank O’Hara texting John Ashbery to meet him at the Cedar. Or Barbara texting James for the scoop on Doug and Frank. Instead they show up in James Schuyler’s Morning of the Poem. Instead, Joe Brainard writes I Remember, describing the first time he saw Frank O’Hara and what he remembered: his walk. Instead of texting, John and James take turns writing every other sentence of a novel.

My favorite poetry feels like someone is just talking to you. Maybe you’re on the phone. Your body becomes the technology. You receive a signal. It’s a private voice in your head. It shows you you are not dead. At first all I wanted was the poem. The New York School taught me to want the poets. It doesn’t hurt that they were cute, too.

I think that’s what drew me to New York. That type of chosen family, written about: and thus, real. I could see the model for a queer family. I rushed to the city after school to find it. And there it was.

I still remember how cool it was spotting John Ashbery at Café Loup before I’d fully moved to town. I was a tourist, so I just stared. The thing about poets — even the most award-winning ones — is they’re people. They have a favorite pizza spot. You can email them. But my version of Ashbery was already caught up in his history, despite the fact that his history wasn’t over.

Everything’s always happening simultaneously.

I miss when a new Ashbery poem could happen at literally any moment, because he was still alive. There’s a limited supply to new work now but not new connections. There’s always more newness. Like friendship. Like how there are these new collages — not new but newly available.

PUTTING TO AND TWO TOGETHER: READING JOHN ASHBERY'S COLLAGES

PUTTING TO AND TWO TOGETHER: READING JOHN ASHBERY'S COLLAGES